Wildflower dragged the ballast inside and Bastian pulled the red rip cord to open the parachute valve. On his instruction, Jambit and Wildflower curled up on the floor protecting their heads and praying.
They made a fast descent and hit the concrete roof with a bump throwing them into the air as the basket slid towards the edge. Bastian threw out a rope and lassoed an old satellite dish. They came to a screeching halt inches from the drop and jumped out. Jambit cringed from the pain in his leg but the bleeding had stopped.
Searchlights from the inner zone ahead cut through the purple sky and greeted the new day breaking through the clouds.
‘Thank God we made it,’ said Wildflower, no longer feeling airsick.
‘Are you certain Holroyd has paid the ferryman?’ asked Bastian.
‘I’m sure,’ she replied.
They scanned the office blocks across the street for anyone watching their movements. Satisfied they were alone, they hauled the basket away from the edge and stuffed the deflated balloon inside.
Bastian shot the lock obstinately blocking their path and threw the empty shotgun into the basket. Once inside, they descended the stairwell into darkness until tumbling out on the top floor. Daylight flooded through the windows.
On the office floor in the corner of the room was an open box of Party armbands with parrot insignia, administrators. And the ornate décor included a soft panther skin carpet and an ivory inlaid desk with a gorilla head paperweight watching them.
Bastian looked at the stacked boxes of tinned caviar and cognac before picking up three of the armbands.
‘I thought Party officials were banned from smoking tobacco,’ said Wildflower, holding a pack of cigars.
‘Someone needs to remind them,’ said Jambit, taking the gold sovereigns pushed inside the gorilla’s mouth.
‘Let’s take a look in the other rooms,’ said Bastian.
The cinema on the fourth floor could seat twenty and there was a glass cabinet full of cola bottles and honeycombed chocolate bars. The ice-box was full of ice-cream and they had a tub of strawberry and vanilla each before throwing the cartons and small wooden spoons into the bin and progressing.
The corridor walls were covered with unframed paintings from the London museums and held in place with drawing pins with no thought to the ascetic positioning. The last picture, a vase of sunflowers, was punctured with small holes and a dartboard hung by its side.
On the ground floor in Lost Property were rows of shelves holding the discarded suitcases of retirees. They were glad to change into nondescript short sleeved shirts and shorts, apart from Jambit who wore long trousers a size too big to hide the bite mark on his leg. They stuffed their old clothes back in the cases, none more relieved than Bastian no longer looking like a horse and cart accident.
Each wore an administrator’s armband and stolen sandals as they stepped onto the streets with adrenaline coursing through their veins. They made haste and followed Wildflower to the ferryman.
Chapter Forty-Two
They strolled the pavement as Wildflower led them down the memorised streets kept in her head for over a year: left at the boarded up estate agents, right at the Bloody Guillotine pub, and so on and so forth. Lanterns high on the lampposts were being snuffed out by the morning patrols. One man would hold the wooden ladders whilst another climbed to the top, lifted the hurricane glass and doused the flame with a candle snuffer.
‘Papers,’ shouted a voice behind them.
Bastian turned around.
‘Take a hike,’ he shouted.
‘Halt,’ snapped the old man holding a turnpike.
‘Are you blind?’ asked Wildflower, ‘Can’t you see we’re administrators?’
‘Young folk today,’ mumbled the old man as he trudged off, ‘think they own the country.’
Grass grew between the paving slabs and flowers fought with weeds for the clean city air. A rat ran across their path with its tail longer than a shotgun barrel.
‘Have you found him?’ asked the small boy, rushing towards them.
‘Who?’ Bastian asked.
The boy placed a hand atop his shaven head save for a ponytail growing from the back.
‘The cougher that escaped from the stocks last night,’ he groaned.
This was a man whom didn’t like to suffer alone and left his abode to cough and splutter over others without any will or care to cover his blasphemous mouth. In England, they called it the Scottish disease and in Scotland the English disease.
‘We haven’t seen him,’ said Jambit. ‘But I hope you catch him, and not the cold.’
‘Can’t you help me look?’ the boy asked.
‘Sorry, kid, but we’re in a hurry,’ said Wildflower.
The boy almost turned purple with rage.
‘Nobody calls me kid, you could get locked up for that. Where you from anyway? You’re not from these parts.’
‘We’re scouting for new talent, those that know their Leaflets,’ said Bastian calmly. ‘Congratulations, you just passed our test.’
‘And what do I get?’
‘Meet me here tomorrow at the same time. I’ll bring a recruiting commissar, you got real potential,’ replied Bastian.
‘You serious, me with a commissar? My friends are gonna be jealous.’
He skipped along to tell them, but then like his stature abruptly halted as a thought occurred to him.
‘What if I don’t get to be six foot?’ he moaned.
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Bastian, ‘they’re lowering the entry bar.’
* * *
They glanced around to see if anyone was following before they twisted through the makeshift barrier of antique cabinets and into the deserted underground carpark.
They were on the steps as far as they could go, watching the filthy water lap onto the sides of the walls with a large hole in one. On the other side the water cascaded down a steep bank towards the sewers.
‘Don’t even think about swimming,’ said Bastian. ‘Because it’s suicide and somehow I think it’s a little late for the village to celebrate my sacrifice.’
‘We wait,’ said Wildflower.
‘In the cold,’ sighed Bastian, as they sat on the concrete floor.
‘I’m boiling,’ said Jambit.
Bastian felt his fevered brow. Jambit was burning up and his lips were purple.
‘I
